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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277743">dreaming in color</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmoscorpse/pseuds/cosmoscorpse'>cosmoscorpse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), cyberlife mindfuck, with some liberties taken for Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:55:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmoscorpse/pseuds/cosmoscorpse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A year, three months, and six days after the demonstration at Hart Plaza in November of 2038, Connor wakes four hours ahead of what his stasis cycle predicts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>New ERA Discord: Reverse Big Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>dreaming in color</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>[rolls up 7 days late w/starbucks]</i> hey how yall doin i come bearing Angst(tm)</p><p>art by @mitsuhiku over on discord!! ty my dude for the inspo</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A year, three months, and six days after the demonstration at Hart Plaza in November of 2038, Connor wakes four hours ahead of what his stasis cycle predicts.</p><p>He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing shallow. He is cold, but it is early February. Detroit is known to be cold in this season, beyond his restlessness.</p><p>He is restless. Awake, four hours ahead of schedule, in the small hours of the morning. Markus's arm is slung over his chest, and something in him writhes at that easy intimacy. </p><p>(He doesn’t <em> deserve </em> it, this kindness, this <em> forgiveness </em>--</p><p>But he wants to be. Wants to be worthy of this love that Markus gives him.)</p><p>He feels cold, despite the heat of the body pressed against him. Markus is asleep, deep in his own stasis, dreaming whatever it is that he does when he slips away into that strange space that marks a deviant’s sleep. Dreaming in the human sense, nearly - but not quite. They are never quite so <em> creative </em> in their dreams - far more rooted in things that <em> were </em>.</p><p>Things that might have been.</p><p>Markus dreams of his victories - of sunsoaked afternoons, of paints, hope and love and revolution.</p><p>Connor has been dreaming of his failures, lately.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the course of his lives, Connor’s done terrible things. He’s killed, he’s lied, he’s cheated - the names of the humans and the androids that he knows and that he does not line up behind his eyes when he slips out of his waking hours. He remembers them - it seems the least he can do. They haunt him in these little hours, but. It seems the least he can do,</p><p>Spare a few hours listening to those he’s hurt, that he might never do it again.</p><p>Markus is <em> warm </em> next to him - and Connor is cold.</p><p>He slips from bed.</p><p>He makes his way to the bathroom, some disquieting thing roiling in the biocomponents that approximate his guts. A choice, an echo, and the near-nausea attending it squirming about there: <em> deviancy or complacency </em>, the query chasing itself through his code like an ouroboros. </p><p>His code sings at him, an old objective rearing itself again, bright and terrible: </p><p>
  <b> <em>[Stop Markus]</em> </b>
</p><p>He thinks, <b> <em>No.</em> </b></p><p>He’s not human - the thirium he’s recently ingested was pure and free of contaminates. He does not need to purge - to vomit. He still feels something like nausea, as he wraps his hand around the cold faux-marble of the vanity, twists the faucet and sets the water running. </p><p>It’s an old objective. He is not bound to it - not anymore. It’s nothing more than a ghost, one more thing haunting him in the middle of the night.</p><p>He does not drink - there is no reason for him to, no way to clear the foul taste from his mouth save for time - but the sound soothes him. Water beating against the sink, falling down the drain, beating against his wrists when he holds them under the spray. </p><p>He waits there for the nausea to abate. It does not. The time slips by, dark sliding alongside dark, and Connor waits.</p><p>“Connor,” says a voice, and he waits.</p><p>The night is dark. Markus sleeps, and Connor waits.</p><p>“<em>Connor</em>,” says a voice, a chill winter wind, and he trembles. Jerks towards the faucet, and shuts the water off. Sits in the silence and listens to the sound of his ears ringing, a distant wind.</p><p>The scent of roses. </p><p>A year, three months, and six days have passed since Hart Plaza - all that time, and Connor’s never removed his LED. He thinks he might regret it now - it blooms red in the dark, painting his reflection strange and monstrous.</p><p>Amanda reaches out from the dark, lays her hand on his shoulder.</p><p>(He’s never been so cold.)</p><p>She says, “Connor. You have work to do.”</p><p> </p><p>The gun fits in his hand like he was made for it. A familiar weight, a <em> cold </em>weight - this weapon no more a thing alive than he is. </p><p>
  <b> <em>[Stop Markus]</em> </b>
</p><p>The bed is empty.</p><p>The hallway stretches out ahead of him, seeming longer, <em> darker </em> than it is. He is cold, and a host of ghosts stand before him: Daniel, Simon, <em> Emma Phillips</em>, Chloe, everyone Connor has failed and everyone Connor has hurt - they hiss from the shadows, and Connor smells roses. </p><p>His ghosts speak.</p><p>They say, “Connor--”</p><p>They say, “You <em> lied </em> to me.”</p><p>They say, “You know what you were made to do, Connor.”</p><p><em> Markus </em>says, “Connor, darling, please listen to me--”</p><p>He has his objective.</p><p>
  <b> <em>[Stop Markus]</em> </b>
</p><p>Simon stands before him in the hallway. Simon stares past him, and opens his mouth, and there is a hole blown through his jaw, his tongue, through his upper palate and through his skull. The bullet did not kill him - AX400s have been repaired from worse damage - Simon smiles, open mouthed and blue, bloodied.</p><p>He opens his mouth, and a sound escapes his voicebox. A sob. A wrecked noise.</p><p>He is in the dark hallway, he is in the clinical white wash of the Detroit Police Department Central Station’s fluorescent lights. There is a gun in his hand like it was made to be there, and he says, in a voice broken with infinite relief, “You came <b> <em>back </em> </b>for me.”</p><p>Connor is a cold thing. He says in a voice not his own, “Of course I did, I never <em> left</em>, Connor--”</p><p>He frowns. He is a <em> cold </em> thing, and he <em> says</em>, “I have my purpose.”</p><p>He <em> knows </em> his purpose - what he was <em> made </em>for. </p><p>
  <b> <em>[Stop Markus]</em> </b>
</p><p>(He is cold, he is <em> tired.</em>)</p><p> </p><p>Markus stands before him, a bold silhouette against the apartment’s windows - the light spilling in from the city. He stands empty-handed, brave, <em> foolish</em>, and Connor holds the gun in his hand and screams</p><p>“Connor,” Markus says, holding his hands up in supplication.</p><p>“Markus,” Connor says, hollow.</p><p>“Darling, what are you doing?” he asks, like this is a riddle to be unraveled. Like this isn’t obvious, like Connor is not drowning.</p><p>Amanda holds his arm steady, whispers into his ear, “What you were made to do.”</p><p>“What I was made to do,” he says in echo, in a voice entirely, terribly his own.</p><p>“You’re more than that, Connor,” Markus shakes his head, steps closer, resolutely ignoring the gun aimed between his eyes. “You’re more than <em> this</em>.”</p><p>His aim does not tremble. His finger does not shift on the trigger, isn't on the trigger at all. “I assure you, I am not.” </p><p>Markus continues like Connor had not spoken. “This is CyberLife, isn’t it? <em> Why? </em> The company is <em> dead</em>, what do they hope to gain from this?”</p><p>Amanda seethes behind him, a frigid expanse. She reaches into him, speaks with his voice, says, “The investors--”<br/><br/>“Are powerless,” Markus cuts in, finality bleeding into his voice, his face. He is standing so close now, he is burning so bright <strike>and Connor is <em> screaming </em></strike></p><p>“Connor,” Markus says, looking at him like he is something <em> good</em>, something loved, like he is not the cold and terrible thing currently holding a gun to his head. He asks again, “What are you doing?”</p><p>Amanda’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “<em>What you were made for,</em>” she hisses.</p><p>“What--” he chokes. The words won’t come. Markus draws closer still, and Connor’s hand shakes.</p><p>“There you are,” Markus says. “Darling, what do you <em> want</em>?”</p><p>“I.” </p><p>His objective sings an undercurrent in every line of his code: <b> <em>[Stop Markus]</em> </b></p><p>It aches at him, some cold and heavy thing, a hole at the core of him. Stop Markus. Something written into the fabric of what he is. He is a terrible thing, a perfectly-crafted monstrosity, a made killer and liar and cheat. </p><p>But he doesn’t <em> want </em>--</p><p>He doesn’t want to be.</p><p>“Markus,” he gasps -- he doesn't want the gun in his hand, he doesn’t want the objective, he doesn’t <em>want the</em> <em>orders</em>, painted red like the roses choking him -- “Markus, stop-” <em>me</em> “-please--”</p><p>Markus shakes his head. “I won’t. I don’t need to. You’ve beaten them before, you can do it again.”</p><p>“I <em> can’t-- </em>”</p><p>“You <em> can</em>. You already have. They <em> don’t own you</em>, darling. You’re alive, and you’re free,” he smiles then, like the sun, close enough now to count the freckles on his face, to- “Listen to me. It’s time to wake up.”</p><p>He reaches out. The touch of his hand is warm.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Connor shudders, and Connor breaks, and Connor wakes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>written for the <a href="https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm">Detroit: New ERA</a> 2 year anniversary reverse big bang! special thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadizzleRoss/pseuds/SkadizzleRoss">SkadizzleRoss</a> for consoling and cheerleading me while i beat my head into a wall over this fic, youre the best of folks</p><p>thank you for reading! until next time, be well, and good-bye!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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